Aeschylus

“ Clytemnestra.
Nay, peace, O best-belovèd! Peace! And let us work no evil more.
Surely the reaping of the past is a full harvest, and not good,
And wounds enough are everywhere.—Let us not stain ourselves with blood.
Ye reverend Elders, go your ways, to his own dwelling every one,
Ere things be wrought for which men suffer.—What we did must needs be done.
And if of all these strifes we now may have no more, oh, I will kneel
And praise God, bruisèd though we be beneath the Daemon's heavy heel.
This is the word a woman speaks, to hear if any man will deign.
Aigisthos. ”

“ Leader.
'Tis but the dumb beasts at the altar slain.
Cassandra.
And vapours from a charnel-house . . . See there!
Leader.
'Tis Tyrian incense clouding in the air.
Cassandra (recovering herself again) .
So be it!—I will go, in yonder room
To weep mine own and Agamemnon's doom.
May death be all! Strangers, I am no bird
That pipeth trembling at a thicket stirred
By the empty wind. Bear witness on that day
When woman for this woman's life shall pay,
And man for man ill-mated low shall lie:
I ask this boon, as being about to die. ”

“ The fire of the avenging star.
Chorus.
(This is God's judgement upon Troy. May it not be too fierce! Gold cannot save one who spurneth Justice.)
The stroke of Zeus hath found them! Clear this day
⁠The tale, and plain to trace.
He judged, and Troy hath fallen.—And have men said
That God not deigns to mark man's hardihead,
⁠Trampling to earth the grace
Of holy and delicate things?—Sin lies that way.
For visibly Pride doth breed its own return
⁠On prideful men, who, when their houses swell
⁠With happy wealth, breathe ever wrath and blood. ”

“ But threat thy fill. I am ready, and I stand
Content; if thy hand beateth down my hand,
Thou rulest. If aught else be God's decree,
Thy lesson shall be learned, though late it be.
Chorus.
Thy thought, it is very proud;
⁠Thy breath is the scorner's breath;
Is not the madness loud
⁠In thy heart, being drunk with death?
Yea, and above thy brow
⁠A star of the wet blood burneth!
Oh, doom shall have yet her day,
The last friend cast away,
When He doth answer lie
⁠And a stab for a stab returneth!
Clytemnestra.
And heark what Oath-gods gather to my side! ”

“ Thou craven soul! Why not in open strife
Slay him? Why lay the blood-sin on his wife,
Staining the Gods of Argos, making ill
The soil thereof? . . . But young Orestes still
Liveth. Oh, Fate will guide him home again,
Avenging, conquering, home to kill these twain!
Aigisthos.
'Fore God, if 'tis your pleasure thus to speak and do, ye soon shall hear!
Ho there, my trusty pikes, advance! There cometh business for the spear. ”

“ Clytemnestra.
Now, even now, the Achaian holdeth Troy!
Methinks there is a crying in her streets
That makes no concord. When sweet unguent meets
With vinegar in one phial, I warrant none
Shall lay those wranglers lovingly at one.
So conquerors and conquered shalt thou hear,
Two sundered tones, two lives of joy or fear.
⁠Here women in the dust about their slain,
Husbands or brethren, and by dead old men
Pale children who shall never more be free,
For all they loved on earth cry desolately. ”

“ Great Fortune is an hungry thing,
⁠And filleth no heart anywhere,
Though men with fingers menacing
⁠Point at the great house, none will dare,
When Fortune knocks, to bar the door
Proclaiming: "Come thou here no more!"
Lo, to this man the Gods have given
⁠Great Ilion in the dust to tread
And home return, emblazed of heaven;
If it is writ, he too shall go
Through blood for blood spilt long ago;
If he too, dying for the dead,
⁠Should crown the deaths of alien years,
⁠What mortal afar off, who hears,
Shall boast him Fortune's Child, and led
⁠Above the eternal tide of tears? ”

“ Woe's me, woe's me, for this slavish lying,
The doom of craft and the lonely dying,
⁠The iron two-edged and the hands that slay!
Clytemnestra.
⁠And criest thou still this deed hath been
⁠My work? Nay, gaze, and have no thought
⁠That this is Agamemnon's Queen.
⁠'Tis He, 'tis He, hath round him wrought
⁠This phantom of the dead man's wife;
He, the old Wrath, the Driver of Men astray,
⁠Pursuer of Atreus for the feast defiled;
⁠To assoil an ancient debt he hath paid this life;
A warrior and a crownèd King this day
⁠Atones for a slain child. ”

“ They kill but feast not; they pray not; the law is broken;
Strife in the flesh, and the bride she obeyeth not,
And beyond, beyond, there abideth in wrath re-awoken—
It plotteth, it haunteth the house, yea, it never forgetteth—
⁠Wrath for a child to be."
So Calchas, reading the wayside eagles' sign,
⁠Spake to the Kings, blessings and words of bale;
⁠And like his song be thine,
Sorrow, sing sorrow: but good prevail, prevail!
(Such religion belongs to old and barbarous gods, and brings no peace. I turn to Zeus, who has shown man how to Learn by Suffering.) ”

“ Clytemnestra.
Ye Elders, Council of the Argive name
Here present, I will no more hold it shame
To lay my passion bare before men's eyes.
There comes a time to a woman when fear dies
For ever. None hath taught me. None could tell,
Save me, the weight of years intolerable
I lived while this man lay at Ilion.
That any woman thus should sit alone
In a half-empty house, with no man near,
Makes her half-blind with dread! And in her ear
Alway some voice of wrath; now messengers
Of evil; now not so ”

“ As wide o'er sea and land our glory flies:
"By men of Argolis who conquered Troy,
These spoils, a memory and an ancient joy,
Are nailed in the gods' houses throughout Greece."
Which whoso readeth shall with praise increase
Our land, our kings, and God's grace manifold
Which made these marvels be.—My tale is told.
Leader.
Indeed thou conquerest me. Men say, the light
In old men's eyes yet serves to learn aright.
But Clytemnestra and the House should hear
These tidings first, though I their health may share. ”

“ He charged the young men ⁠to uplift and bind her,
⁠As ye lift a wild kid, ⁠high above the altar,
⁠Fierce-huddling forward, ⁠fallen, clinging sore
To the robe that wrapt her; yea, he bids them hinder
⁠The sweet mouth's utterance, ⁠the cries that falter,
⁠—His curse for evermore!—
With violence and a curb's voiceless wrath,
⁠Her stole of saffron then to the ground she threw,
And her eye with an arrow of pity found its path
⁠To each man's heart that slew:
A face in a picture, striving amazedly ”

“ At last on all the plenty Troy possessed,
No portion in that feast nor ordinance,
But each man clutching at the prize of chance.
Aye, there at last under good roofs they lie
Of men spear-quelled, no frosts beneath the sky,
No watches more, no bitter moony dew. . . .
How blessèd they will sleep the whole night through!
Oh, if these days they keep them free from sin
Toward Ilion's conquered shrines and Them within
Who watch unconquered, maybe not again
The smiter shall be smit, the taker ta'en. ”

“ Clytemnestra.
Nay, pray not for the hour of death, being tried
⁠Too sore beneath these blows
Neither on Helen turn thy wrath aside,
The Slayer of Men, the face which hath destroyed
Its thousand Danaan souls, and wrought a wide
⁠Wound that no leech can close.
Chorus.
—Daemon, whose heel is set
⁠On the House and the twofold kin
⁠Of the high Tantalidae,
⁠A power, heavy as fate,
⁠Thou wieldest through woman's sin,
⁠Piercing the heart of me!
—Like a raven swoln with hate
⁠He hath set on the dead his claw,
⁠He croaketh a song to sate
⁠His fury, and calls it Law!
Clytemnestra. ”

“ Cassandra.
Alas for the toil, the toil of a City, worn unto death!
Alas for my father's worship before the citadel,
The flocks that bled and the tumult of their breath!
⁠But no help from them came
To save Troy Towers from falling as they fell! . . . ”

“ Clytemnestra.
Wouldst fright me, like a witless woman? Lo,
This bosom shakes not. And, though well ye know,
I tell you . . . Curse me as ye will, or bless,
'Tis all one . . . This is Agamemnon; this,
My husband, dead by my right hand, a blow
Struck by a righteous craftsman. Aye, 'tis so.
Chorus.
Woman, what evil tree,
⁠What poison grown of the ground
Or draught of the drifting sea
⁠Way to thy lips hath found,
Making thee clothe thy heart
⁠In rage, yea, in curses burning
When thine own people pray? ”

“ And smote on the earth their staves, and the tears came.
But the King, the elder, ⁠hath found voice and spoken:
"A heavy doom, sure, ⁠if God's will were broken;
But to slay mine own child, ⁠who my house delighteth,
⁠Is that not heavy? ⁠That her blood should flow
On her father's hand, ⁠hard beside an altar?
⁠My path is sorrow ⁠wheresoe'er I go.
Shall Agamemnon ⁠fail his ships and people,
⁠And the hosts of Hellas ⁠melt as melts the snow?
They cry, they thirst, for a death that shall break the spell,
For a Virgin's blood: 'tis a rite of old, men tell. ”

“ The ancient blinded vengeance and the wrong that amendeth wrong.
Every wrong is justly punished; yet, as the world goes, every punishment becomes a new wrong, calling for fresh vengeance. And more; every wrong turns out to be itself rooted in some wrong of old. ”

“ Cassandra.
Time was, I held it shame hereof to speak.
Elder.
Ah, shame is for the mighty, not the weak.
Cassandra.
We wrestled, and his breath to me was sweet.
Elder.
Ye came to the getting of children, as is meet?
Cassandra.
I swore to Loxias, and I swore a lie.
Elder.
Already thine the gift of prophecy?
Cassandra.
Already I showed my people all their path.
Elder.
And Loxias did not smite thee in his wrath?
Cassandra.
After that sin . . . no man believed me more.
Elder.
Nay, then, to us thy wisdom seemeth sure.
Cassandra.
Oh, oh! Agony, agony! ”

“ When Aigisthos appears, and the scene suddenly becomes filled with the wrangling of common men, Clytemnestra fades into a long silence, from which she only emerges at the very end of the drama to pray again for Peace, and, strangest of all, to utter the entreaty: "Let us not stain ourselves with blood!" ”

“ Who poiseth his scale ⁠in the striving of the spears,
Back from Troy sendeth dust, ⁠heavy dust, wet with tears,
Sendeth ashes with men's names ⁠in his urns neatly spread.
And they weep over the men, ⁠and they praise them one by one,
How this was a wise fighter, ⁠and this nobly slain—
⁠"Fighting to win back another's wife!"
Till a murmur is begun,
⁠And there steals an angry pain
⁠Against Kings too forward in the strife.
⁠There by Ilion's gate
⁠Many a soldier sleepeth,
⁠Young men beautiful; fast in hate
⁠Troy her conqueror keepeth. ”

“ Agamemnon.
The murmur of a people hath strange weight.
Clytemnestra.
Who feareth envy, feareth to be great.
Agamemnon.
'Tis graceless when a woman strives to lead.
Clytemnestra.
When a great conqueror yields, 'tis grace indeed.
Agamemnon.
So in this war thou must my conqueror be?
Clytemnestra.
Yield! With good will to yield is victory!
Agamemnon.
Well, if I needs must . . . Be it as thou hast said!
⁠Quick! Loose me these bound slaves on which I tread,
And while I walk yon wonders of the sea
God grant no eye of wrath be cast on me
From far! ”

“ And the War-seer wise, as he looked on the Atreïd Yoke
⁠Twain-tempered, knew
Those fierce hare-renders the lords of his host; and spoke,
⁠Reading the omen true.
"At the last, the last, this Hunt hunteth Ilion down,
⁠Yea, and before the wall
Violent division the fulness of land and town
⁠Shall waste withal;
If only God's eye gloom not against our gates,
⁠And the great War-curb of Troy, fore-smitten, fail.
For Pity lives, and those wingèd Hounds she hates,
⁠Which tore in the Trembler's body the unborn beast.
And Artemis abhorreth the eagles' feast." ”

“ It seems to me that Aeschylus' imagination realized all the confused passions in Clytemnestra's mind, but that his art was not yet sufficiently developed to make them all clear and explicit. She is in suspense; does Agamemnon know her guilt or not? At least, if she is to die, she wants to say something to justify or excuse herself in the eyes of the world. A touch of hysteria creeps in; why could he not have been killed in all these years? Why must he rise, like some monster from the grave, unkillable? ”

“ Aigisthos.
(sheathing his sword and turning from them) .
Bah, I will be a hand of wrath to fall on thee in after days.
Leader.
Not so, if God in after days shall guide Orestes home again!
Aigisthos.
I know how men in exile feed on dreams . . . and know such food is vain.
Leader.
Go forward and wax fat! Defile the right for this thy little hour!
Aigisthos.
I spare thee now. Know well for all this folly thou shalt feel my power.
Leader.
Aye, vaunt thy greatness, as a bird beside his mate doth vaunt and swell.
Clytemnestra. ”

“ Cassandra trembles, but continues to stare in front of her, as though not hearing Clytemnestra.
⁠seeing the Gods—why chafe at them?—
Have placed thee here, to share within these walls
Our lustral waters, 'mid a crowd of thralls
Who stand obedient round the altar-stone
Of our Possession. Therefore come thou down,
And be not over-proud. ”

“ For of God not unmarked ⁠is the shedder of much blood.
And who conquers beyond right ⁠. . . Lo, the life of man decays;
⁠There be Watchers dim his light in the wasting of the years;
⁠He falls, he is forgotten, and hope dies. ”

“ Aigisthos.
How, thou poor oarsman of the nether row,
When the main deck is master? Sayst thou so? . . .
To such old heads the lesson may prove hard,
I fear me, when Obedience is the word.
But hunger, and bonds, and cold, help men to find
Their wits.—They are wondrous healers of the mind!
Hast eyes and seest not this?—Against a spike
Kick not, for fear it pain thee if thou strike.
Leader.
(turning from him to Clytemnestra) .
Woman! A soldier fresh from war! To keep
Watch o'er his house and shame him in his sleep . . . ”

“ They cluster up towards the Palace Door, as though to force an entrance, when the great Door swings open, revealing Clytemnestra, who stands, axe in hand, over the dead bodies of Agamemnon and Cassandra. The body of Agamemnon is wrapped in a rich crimson web. There is blood on Clytemnestra's brow, and she speaks in wild triumph.
Clytemnestra.
Oh, lies enough and more have I this day
Spoken, which now I shame not to unsay.
How should a woman work, to the utter end,
Hate on a damnèd hater, feigned a friend ”

“ The fall of Pride, the avenging of wrong by wrong, is no new subject selected by Aeschylus. It forms both the commonest burden of the moralising lyrics in Greek tragedy and even of the tragic myths themselves; and recent writers have shown how the same idea touches the very heart of the traditional Greek religion. "The life of the Year-Daemon, who lies at the root of so many Greek gods and heroes, is normally a story of Pride and Punishment. Each year arrives, waxes great, commits the sin of Hubris and must therefore die. It is the way of all Life. ”

“ If we accept the view that all Art to some extent, and Greek tragedy in a very special degree, moves in its course of development from Religion to Entertainment, from a Service to a Performance, the Agamemnon seems to stand at a critical point where the balance of the two elements is near perfection. The drama has come fully to life, but the religion has not yet faded to a formality. The Agamemnon is not, like Aeschylus' Suppliant Women, a statue half-hewn out of the rock. ”

“ Praise God thou art come to a House of high report
And wealth from long ago. The baser sort,
Who have reaped some sudden harvest unforeseen,
Are ever cruel to their slaves, and mean
In the measure. We shall give whate'er is due. ”